


The Capacity for Friendship

by boomerbird10



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomerbird10/pseuds/boomerbird10
Summary: When Ziva falls ill just before the holidays, it falls to Tony to take care of her.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	The Capacity for Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to two "sickfic" prompts from friends on Tumblr. Here were the prompts: "Is that my sweater? I'm going to have to burn that thing now that you've contaminated it!" and "If you mention food one more time, I swear I will eviscerate you." It's set around Christmas time in season 5.

"The capacity for friendship is God's way of apologizing for our families."

-Jay McInerney, _The Last of the Savages_

* * *

Ever since Ziva was small, she has _hated_ being sick. She's an excellent fighter regardless of the method of combat, and she's confident against any number of enemies… but with an illness, there's nothing to fight against. She's helpless to do anything but wait it out.

When she starts to feel ill a few days before what will be her third Christmas in Washington, she tries everything she can think of to ward it off. She drinks so much orange juice that her taste buds start to burn from the acid, but despite the massive influx of vitamin C, the vague feeling that something's off with her body just gets stronger.

It comes to a head the last day before what will be a short break for the holiday. They're working a complicated robbery and the sheer amount of brain power and activity this case requires keeps Ziva's thoughts away from her rolling stomach… but she gets increasingly nauseated as the day goes on anyway.

Eventually, her teammates start to notice. "Are you okay, Ziva?" McGee asks her in an undertone. It's early afternoon and they've just finished presenting the new information they gathered on the suspects of the case. "You're looking a little… well, _green_."

"I am _fine_ ," Ziva retorts loudly, and McGee looks taken aback. She feels a little badly—she hadn't meant to snap at him, but she can't take it back now.

"Alright, then," McGee mutters. "Sorry I asked."

Later, when they've mercifully wrapped up the case, she starts to feel distinctly shivery. The day is a cold one, but she's sitting at her desk in a temperature-controlled room. There's no reason she should suddenly feel like she's been plunged into ice water.

She bites her lip to keep her teeth from chattering, but she can't control the tremors that move up and down her frame. Tony, stopping at her desk to ask a question, gets distracted when he sees how she's acting. "What's wrong with you?" he asks bluntly, less polite than McGee was earlier.

"I am cold," she answers shortly.

"Then put on a jacket," Tony suggests.

Ziva rolls her eyes and lets a little sarcasm into her voice. "Why did I not think of that, I wonder?" She narrows her eyes at him in annoyance. "I do not _have_ a jacket. I have a coat, which is too warm to wear indoors."

Tony walks around her desk to sit on it, tsking. "You should always be prepared, Ziva. I thought you knew better."

"Your opinion has been noted, thank you. Now leave me alone." She pushes on his shoulder, trying to evict him from her personal space, but he doesn't move. "Seriously, Tony. I am not in the mood to deal with your childishness today. Go away."

He puts his hands up in surrender and stands. "Fine, little Ms. Bossypants. But since you're being rude…" He trots behind his desk and rummages in a drawer, emerging a moment later with a thick pullover sweater. "...you can't wear this. I was going to offer it to you but now I see that you're totally fine, you don't need anything at all."

It goes deeply against the grain to admit to Tony DiNozzo of all people that she needs help, especially when he's being an ass, but… "I am sorry for being unfriendly," she murmurs, swallowing her pride. "If you do not need your sweater right now, may I please borrow it for the afternoon?"

He grins and tosses it over. "Of course! That wasn't so hard, was it, Ziva?"

Now that she has what she wants, she feels secure in rolling her eyes again instead of answering. She pulls the sweater on and immediately makes a noise that's close to a groan of relief. "Thank you," she tells Tony a beat late.

Tony starts to chatter about how growing up in a desert has made her fundamentally flawed as a person, unable to withstand any chill, but she tunes him out.

A few minutes later, the urge to vomit forcefully overcomes her, and she gags, leaping to her feet and running for the bathroom. She barely makes it before losing what little lunch she managed to get down earlier, and the coughing and sputtering that follows makes her chest ache. Still, the act of expelling her stomach's contents soothes her nausea to some degree, and after cleaning herself up, she feels okay to return to her desk.

Tony falls into step with her as soon as she makes it out of the women's room, and she sighs. "What do you want?"

"Are you okay? That sounded kinda nasty in there."

"You were _listening_?" Ziva realizes, disgusted.

"Well, I didn't mean to, but you were kinda loud."

"Why did you wait outside the door, then!?"

"Because I was worried about you." The sincerity in his voice is unexpected, and she looks up at him, her face softening.

"I am fine, Tony. I have a stomach insect, that is all," she assures him.

"I think you mean a stomach bug." He reaches out to feel her forehead, and she doesn't have space to move and avoid it as they reach her desk. "Jesus, Ziva! You're burning up! You shouldn't be here."

She shrugs him off, ducking under his arm to go around the desk. "It is no matter," she insists, dismissing his concerns. "The day is nearly over. I will survive another hour."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but isn't it sort of rude to pass your little Israeli germs on to the rest of us right before Christmas?"

Ziva makes a face. "If you are afraid of germs, then you would do well to return to your own desk and stay clear of mine."

Tony shrugs. "Well, if you're contagious, I've probably already been exposed. But my point here is that you're _sick_. You shouldn't just stay here and make yourself miserable."

"If you're sick, Ziver, go home," Gibbs interjects, going around Tony to get down the aisle to his own desk.

"I am fine, Gibbs," Ziva repeats, feeling like a broken record.

"No, she's not," Tony disagrees.

"Go home," Gibbs repeats flatly. "DiNozzo, follow her and make sure she gets there safely."

"Nice," Tony says with a grin, happily returning to his desk to start gathering belongings. "I love leaving early."

"Day's not over yet," Gibbs points out, instantly popping Tony's hopeful bubble. "You can come back when you're done and finish your report—and hers, while you're at it."

"Come on, boss, it's Christmas!"

"Christmas isn't for another three days."

Tony sighs, resigned. "Got it, boss. Okay, come on, Ziva. Let's go."

* * *

True to his word, Tony follows her home, and she waves goodbye to him through the window as she parks. She's surprised when, rather than continuing down the street, he parallel parks a few spaces in front of her. "What are you doing?" she asks when he gets out and they're both on the sidewalk.

"Gibbs said to make sure you got home safely."

"I _am_ home safely."

"Well, you haven't made it inside yet, have you?"

Though Ziva really doesn't want company and she's clearly fine to climb a few flights of stairs, it probably isn't worth the argument of trying to stop Tony from following her up. She shrugs instead, allowing it, and makes her way into the building.

For once, Tony doesn't try to talk to her, maybe sensing that she isn't feeling well enough to engage in conversation, and she appreciates it.

They reach her apartment, and just as she's about to try again to dismiss him, a new wave of nausea hits her. She fumbles desperately for her keys, but in her panic, she's too slow—she has to bend over and throw up right where they stand in the hall.

Tony jumps backwards and manages to avoid being splattered, watching with sympathy until she's done. "Hey, are you _sure_ you're going to be alright by yourself?" he asks her gently, no hint of humor in his tone now.

Leaning against the wall to catch her breath, her eyes clenched shut, Ziva waves a hand weakly in his general direction. "Yes. Just go, Tony, please."

He doesn't answer, but she feels him pluck her keys from her hand, and a moment later, she can hear the door unlocking. She opens her eyes to see Tony standing expectantly in front of her. "Promised I'd get you _all the way_ home," he reminds her. "Come on, in you go."

She's too tired to argue, stepping around the puddle of sick and making a beeline for her bathroom. It occurs to her that she really should say goodbye and happy holidays to Tony, but she's sure he'll understand why she can't.

Once she's done cleaning herself up a few minutes later, though, she's surprised to discover that her partner never left. She finds him out in the hall, grimacing and pinching his nose with one hand while he clears away her mess using paper towels with the other. "Tony, I appreciate the help, but you really do not have to do this," she protests.

"Yes, I do," he argues, apparently resolute despite his clear distaste for the task. "Why, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you why." His voice sounds strange, nasally because his nose is still pinched. "If I don't, you'll have to do it. You're a badass ninja and all that, of course, but you're _clearly_ on your deathbed right now, so I think your reflexes are probably dulled. I bet that if you try to do what I'm doing now, you'll slip on your own vomit, fall, and die. Gibbs would have my head for that, so, _yes_ , I _do_ have to 'do this.'" he concludes.

Ziva gets the distinct impression that he's being silly on purpose to cheer her up, and unexpectedly, it works. "I cannot argue with that logic, I suppose. Thank you, Tony."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. I have a reputation to uphold."

Ziva's laugh turns into a cough, and Tony frowns at her. "Go inside. You need rest." Though she has to swallow back her need for independence that conflicts with following his orders, she does what he asks.

Tony lets himself in once he's done, putting away Ziva's cleaning supplies and throwing away what was soiled. Then he checks on her where she sits on the couch, knees curled up to her chest. "Do you need anything else before I go? Maybe you should try to eat some crackers or something. Might settle your stomach a little."

"No, I will be alright, and I appreciate the offer. But Tony?"

"Yep?"

"If you mention food one more time, I swear I will eviscerate you." Her stomach lurches at the very sound of the word right now, making her shudder involuntarily.

"Noted," Tony replies, unsuccessfully trying to repress a smile in response to the threat. "Okay, then. I'm going back to the office. But… if you do need anything, I guess you know how to reach me. Happy holidays, Ziva."

"Happy holidays, Tony."

* * *

Tony ends up staying in the bullpen later than anyone else on his team, completing the reports like he promised. McGee offers to stay and help, but Tony shrugs him off—he knows that his friend has holiday plans, and Tony, on the other hand, has nowhere else to be.

This is one of the main times of the year that makes him miss his mother; before she died, she was enthusiastic about the holidays, and he doesn't have many fond memories of Christmas besides the few he can remember with her. He wonders where his dad is spending the season and then reminds himself that it really doesn't matter. That bridge has long since burned.

Tony supposes he could always ask to spend Christmas itself with a friend, especially someone like Gibbs who is likely to be alone and not celebrating much if at all. He finds that he'd rather embrace the melancholy, though, and waste the free time drinking alone and watching old movies. It's an easy time of the year to feel sorry for himself, even if he generally doesn't let his lack of a close family bother him.

That returns his thoughts to Ziva. She has a father still in Israel, he knows—will she be sad to miss out on being with him for Christmas? Then he reminds himself that she's Jewish—a quick Google search tells him that this year, Christmas falls right in the middle of Hanukkah, and he's back to wondering about Ziva's family.

Maybe he should stop back by her apartment tomorrow, he decides. That will at least give him an opportunity to check up on her, and if she's feeling better, maybe he can spread some holiday cheer for them both. He's pretty sure that the Downtown Holiday Market is a fun visit no matter what religion one subscribes to.

Decision made and reports finished, he leaves his and Ziva's paperwork on Gibbs' desk and heads out for the night.

* * *

Ziva's feeling no better when she wakes up late the next morning. Her head seems stuffed full of something thick and viscous, making her thoughts slow and her senses unreliable. To make matters worse, her limbs feel stiff and achy from sleeping for too long last night.

She showers as soon as she's up, which helps a small amount, and she's just making the taxing move from the bedroom to the living room when someone knocks on her door.

Though she considers ignoring whoever's there, she suspects that they'll just end up knocking again, so she trudges toward the sound to answer.

It's Tony. What's he doing here? She opens the door to let him in.

"Morning," he says brightly. "How are you feeling on this fine Saturday?"

She makes a face, hoping that's answer enough.

Luckily, he seems to get it. "That's unfortunate, because I brought you lots of my paperwork to do. Figured it was only fair since I had to finish yours last night. Just try not to throw up on it, okay?" he teases.

He hands her a bag, and she accepts it in confusion. A glance inside reveals a few styrofoam containers. "What is this?"

"Well, rats. Did I bring you the lunch bag instead of the paperwork bag?" He snaps his fingers in a sarcastic 'gosh darn it' gesture. "What does it look like, Ziva? It's soup. It'll keep in the fridge if you're not up to eating anything yet, but if you are, it's really good. It's from a deli by my apartment."

Touched, Ziva gives him a worn out smile; it's the best she can do right now. "That was thoughtful, Tony, thank you. I think I will save it for later, though. My stomach—well, I do not think it can be trusted right now."

"Understandable." Tony is struck randomly by an intrusive thought about how pretty her hair looks, still wet from her shower and quickly spiraling into little ringlets as it dries. Trying to get as far away from _that_ thought as possible, he casts about for a quick change of subject, and to his relief, he sees the pullover he lent her folded neatly on the coffee table. "Hey, is that my sweater? I'm going to have to burn that thing now that you've contaminated it!"

Ziva laughs, pushing her hair back from where it's falling in her face. (Tony tries not to be distracted, wondering what's gotten into him today.) "I am afraid I do not have a fireplace for you to use, but I can share my matchbox, if you would like."

"Sure, that'll do. Whatever it takes to get rid of your germs."

"Just try not to burn my building down, yes?" Ziva smiles a little and changes the subject, tilting her head toward the couch. "You are welcome to stay if you want to, but I need to sit down either way."

"Yes, please do," he agrees quickly, mildly concerned that she might pass out. It isn't like her to admit to things like that, so she really _must_ be feeling poorly. "Oh, and give me the soup back. I'll go put it away for you."

She hands it over, and by the time Tony is finished dealing with it, Ziva has settled herself comfortably under a blanket on the sofa. He hesitates slightly before joining her, not wanting to overstay his welcome if she was just being polite.

"Do you want to pick a movie to watch?" she asks before he can change his mind.

"You know I can't say no to that."

* * *

They spend the day like that, and despite Ziva's illness, it's a fairly pleasant afternoon. First, they watch _Gladiator_ , which Tony explains won Russell Crowe an Oscar and marked the death of Oliver Reed, who died during filming. Ziva could not care less about movie trivia, but Tony's enthusiasm and eagerness to share is nonsensically entertaining... so she lets him prattle and pays more attention to him than the film.

He talks less during their second film ( _A Clockwork Orange_ ) and falls silent entirely a quarter of an hour into _2001: A Space Odyssey_. Ziva looks over after a few minutes to see that he's fallen asleep. It makes her smile, and she thinks he looks almost cute, if she's being honest with herself. With his head resting on the back of the couch, mouth slightly open, and a pillow held in his lap with two arms tightly wrapped around it, he seems young, somehow, and completely at ease.

She turns the movie off, uninterested in watching it alone, and gets up to go to the bathroom. On her way out, though, she pauses, looking back… After only a little hesitation, she returns to the couch to drape a blanket over her friend. She tries not to think about the tenderness behind the urge.

Tony sleeps for several hours, during which time Ziva slowly starts to believe that she's turned a corner. She still feels congested and slightly feverish, but the bulk of the horrible nausea is gone, thank goodness.

Unfortunately, it seems as if she may have simply passed the baton.

Tony wakes up shivering, and the first thing he does is complain. "Do you always keep your apartment cold enough to keep polar bears happy, or is this just what you do when you have friends over?"

His whole persona right now looks all-too-familiar to Ziva, who sighs without comment, reaching over to feel his forehead just like he did for her yesterday.

"Stop it, Ziva!" Tony whines. "God, your hand is like ice. Is that for the polar bears, too?"

"You have a fever, Tony."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"You're just projecting. You're the one who's sick."

"Would you like a thermometer to prove I am right?"

"I'll use a thermometer to prove that _I'm_ right."

Ziva fetches hers and gives him a dry look when it reads 38.5 after he uses it. "Like I said, you have a fever."

Tony glares at the instrument in question as if it's lying to him, but though he's not quite as familiar with celsius as Ziva is, he's pretty sure nothing above 37 is normal. Damn it, she _is_ right. "You gave me your disease, Typhoid Mary," he accuses.

Ziva snorts. "I _did_ warn you to keep your distance."

"Yeah, but I was trying to be nice!"

"And that was chivalrous of you, I suppose, but it does not change the fact that the best way to prevent contagion from spreading is to avoid close contact."

"Whatever, Ziva. I'm sick, it's your fault, and I'm going home." He sounds—and feels—like a grumpy 5-year-old.

"Can you make it home safely, or do you need my help?" she teases, and he cracks a smile.

"I'll be fine."

Ziva helps him gather his things—she insists that he take at least one of the soup containers home—and he looks at her expectantly when he's all ready to go. "What?" she asks, confused.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What am I forgetting?"

His eyes slide pointedly to her chest, and just as she starts to get indignant, she remembers that she's wearing his sweater again. (In her defense, it's a very warm one.)

"Oh!" She tries not to flush with embarrassment as she yanks it over her head and hands it back.

"Thank you very much," he replies, clearly enjoying her mild discomfort.

"Go on, then, Tony," she tells him curtly, and he laughs and starts to cough.

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

Ziva sees him out, but she's barely had time to walk from the door to her bedroom when she hears a knock. She finds out shortly that it's Tony again, looking sheepish. "Um, Ziva? I don't think I can go anywhere after all."

"Why not?"

He jerks his head toward the window, and Ziva goes to peer outside. It seems Tony is right… there is no driving to be done now.

The world has turned white, the air so thick with heavy snowfall that Ziva can't even see the building on the opposite side of the street. It's difficult to tell from here how much snow is actually on the ground, but it's obvious even to someone who grew up in the desert that this is a full-blown blizzard. Tony is going to be stuck here with her until the streets are cleared.

Rather than commenting on the situation at hand, Ziva turns back to Tony with a smirk. "Who is it that is 'fundamentally flawed as a person, unable to withstand any chill' again, Tony? This is just a little snow, nothing you cannot handle, yes?"

Tony opens his mouth to answer, but before his sarcastic comment can be spoken, he suddenly turns very pale. Without saying a word, he spins on his heel and runs to the bathroom. Ziva winces as she hears him get sick, and she sighs. Now it's her turn to do a little taking care of him, it seems.

While he's busy, she goes back to her bedroom and changes the sheets, resigned to having an overnight guest. She can't imagine the roads will be clear before morning at the earliest.

Tony emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, still a little green, to find Ziva waiting with a glass of water and a warm, damp cloth. "Here," she tells him, not without sympathy. "Clear the taste from your mouth and wipe your face. It will make you feel a little better."

"Thanks, Mom," he mutters sarcastically, but aside from general crabbiness because he doesn't feel well, he does appreciate her care. He sips at the water, ignoring her concerned gaze, and hands back the empty glass when he's done. "Are _you_ feeling better?"

"I am getting there," she answers.

"Good. At least I know this won't last long, then."

"You should feel mostly better by tomorrow." Ziva pats him gently on the shoulder, searching his face for signs that he's anything worse than uncomfortable. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He shrugs. "I mean, you've just dealt with the same thing, so unless you have any innovative ideas, I'm sure you know it's just going to suck for a while. I think I want to lay down, I guess. Mind if I commandeer your couch?"

Ziva shakes her head. "No, _I_ will sleep on the couch. I have put clean sheets on the bed for you."

"Come on, I can't kick you out of your bed. Especially not when you're still recovering yourself!"

"Well, you would have to fight me for the couch… and we both know that I would win."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would."

The bickering lacks its usual bluster and Ziva can tell that despite still acting like he usually does, refusing to take anything seriously, Tony is weak and uncomfortable. "Just say thank you and move on, Tony," she snaps. She knows that if she says it too kindly, he'll just keep arguing.

"Thank you and move on, Tony," he repeats obediently.

Ziva snorts and walks behind him, placing her hands on his upper back and starting to shove. He digs his heels in, but she's stronger than she looks, and she starts to make progress regardless. Finally, he cough-laughs. "Alright, stop pushing me, I'll go!"

"Thank you." She shakes her head at him, half-smiling, and watches as he disappears into her bedroom and closes the door. "I told you I would win," she says under her breath once she's sure he won't hear.

* * *

The unpleasant situation takes a turn for the worse during the night.

Ziva wakes up suddenly a little past two in the morning, trembling from head to toe from the chill in the room. At first, she thinks her fever has worsened again, but when she sits up, intending to find another blanket, she notices something odd: there is no light in the room at all. Even the little blinky bulb on the WiFi router, usually constantly flashing, is dark.

Apparently, the snowstorm has knocked the building's power out altogether. It's not her fever, then—she feels chilled because the temperature in the room is dropping quickly.

With her teeth chattering, Ziva collects all the spare blankets from her hall closet and burrows on the sofa beneath them. It warms her for a while, but never enough for her to get back to sleep. Eventually, she's too cold to stay still where she is, and she gathers the blankets and pads silently to her bedroom.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

She knocks softly on the door, but when she doesn't get a response, she opens it quietly and looks in. Tony is still fast asleep, seemingly yet unbothered by the power outage. Ziva debates briefly between waking him and simply joining him while he rests unawares; she decides to leave him be, because he needs his sleep.

She changes her mind, however, as soon as she gets closer… her eyes, still adjusting to the dark, can see him more clearly now, and he doesn't look good. He's twitching under the comforter, his body jerking uncomfortably as he dreams, and while she watches, he starts to make almost inaudible little whimpers. He's clearly dreaming something distressing, and she would be a bad friend if she didn't try to pull him out of it.

"Tony!" she whispers, but he doesn't wake. "Tony!" Finally, she kneels beside him and shakes his shoulder gently. "Tony, wake up."

He finally does, but he seems disoriented. "Ziva?" he asks hoarsely, "'s goin' on?" He reaches out in the dark, and she catches his hand to give it a squeeze.

"I think you were having a nightmare," she murmurs soothingly, "but it is over now. How are you feeling?"

"Not—" he interrupts himself with a deep cough, and the sound makes Ziva wince. "Not fantastic," he tries again. "I'm really cold."

"I am sure you are… it seems the power is gone, so the heat is not working."

"Well, that's shit."

Ziva chuckles. "That it is," she agrees, and she suddenly realizes that they're still holding hands. She lets go immediately. "I think we will have to share the bed. It is simply too cold not to combine our body heat."

"Combine our body heat, eh?" Though it's too dim to tell for sure, Ziva knows without a doubt that Tony is wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"If you think I have any sexy plans for your sickly carcass, Tony DiNozzo, you can think again," she informs him sharply, but the amusement in her voice is impossible to miss. "Now scoot over. I am getting in."

She goes around to the other side of the bed, shivering, and quickly drapes the blankets she brought with her over the top of the bed. Then she slides in. She intends to stay on her end, but she can feel Tony's body heat radiating a little through the space between them, and she wants _more_. Annoyed with her own hesitation, she stops second-guessing herself and moves over toward Tony's side.

Two things happen when their feet touch: Ziva gives an involuntary moan of pleasure from the warmth she feels, and Tony yelps loudly in protest against the blocks of ice that Ziva's toes have become. "Did you go for a barefoot walk in the snow!?" he croaks, withdrawing his limbs to get away from hers.

Undeterred, she gets closer again, and soon, Tony is close enough to the edge that he has nowhere else to go. "I never thought 'combining body heat' could be so unpleasant, but here we are," he grumps, making Ziva laugh.

"You can never tease me about my resistance to the cold again," she answers smugly.

"We'll see about that," Tony mutters, but the practicality of the need for warmth is impossible to deny. He sighs and rolls toward her slightly, lifting his arm up above his head to make room for her. "Come on, then, Ziva. If we're going to use each other to keep warm, we might as well go for it."

There's no reason to read too much into this, she reminds herself as she settles against his side, her arm draping across his stomach and her head coming to rest on his shoulder. It doesn't matter how nice it feels, or how _right_. They're just doing this because they have to.

That same pragmatism leads Tony to lower his arm back down until it's around her shoulders, and it's only natural to nestle his face against her hair. Body heat, that's all this is.

* * *

It's not the most romantic of nights, not with Tony periodically leaving to throw up and not with the near-constant and unsexy chattering of teeth, but neither can deny come morning that a new kind of bond has been forged through sleeping in each other's arms.

It's Christmas Eve now, not that it matters much to either of them. Still, they stay in Ziva's bed and watch Christmas movies. Around noon, the power comes back on and the apartment slowly heats back up, but neither of them mentions it and neither makes any move to leave the bed. It's too comfortable staying huddled up together.

For once, neither thinks about being alone for the holidays. Neither aches for a close-knit, happy family. Tony doesn't even spare a thought for Jeanne, who's still on his mind most days, even several months after their explosive breakup. None of that matters in the here and now.

In this little bubble, blocked off from the world by blankets and snowfall, they're all the family they need.

Tony starts feeling better near the end of the day, and Ziva finally heats up the soup he brought; neither has eaten much, if anything, in two days. They slurp the soup sitting cross-legged side by side against the headboard of Ziva's bed, halfway through their viewing of _Love Actually_. For the second night in a row, they retire early, but this time, there's not even a pretense of sleeping in different places. They drift off cozily wrapped up together.

It doesn't occur to either of them that not once today did they check to see if the roads had been cleared. Consciously or unconsciously, neither had any desire to part ways.

* * *

Christmas morning, they wake early. Tony is the first to speak. "I know it's not, um, _your_ holiday, Ziva, but merry Christmas."

She chuckles, feeling peaceful. "Merry Christmas, Tony. If I had realized you would be here, I would have gotten you a present."

"Well, I didn't get you one, either, so we're even," Tony agrees in amusement. "But just so you know, presents don't have to be physical things."

Ziva's heart skips a little beat, wondering what he's implying, and she lifts her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs and she can feel it with her whole body, since she's still comfortably surrounded by him. "It really depends on who you ask. Abby has told me more than once that hugs count as presents."

Ziva laughs. "Are you asking for a hug now?" she questions, as if they're not already in a very hug-like position in the bed.

Evidently thinking the same thing, Tony squeezes her shoulders with a grin. "No," he says anyway. "But there's something else you can give me."

"And what is that?"

"Tell me a secret."

"Really, Tony? _That_ is your Christmas wish?" Ziva asks dryly.

"Yep," Tony confirms, popping the 'p' sound. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."

She narrows her eyes. "If I do, you must do the same."

"I can do that," he agrees easily, "but you go first."

"Okay." She screws up her face in concentration, trying to think of something novel to tell him, and after a moment, her expression clears. "My longest and most intense 'crush', as you Americans call it, was on an older man."

Tony's expression tells Ziva that she's just given him a great gift indeed, and he instantly latches onto this juicy tidbit. "Who was it? And how much older was he?" His mind has not at all flashed to thinking about the ten-year difference between the two of them, of course.

"He was… probably around thirty-five, I think. That would put the age difference at almost thirty years." She grins at his expression as he works that one out. "I was six years old, and he was my schoolteacher. I was smitten. I think I was in love with him until I was about ten."

Tony really belly laughs at that one, and Ziva joins in. They both have a bit of a residual cough from their still-recent illness and so the laughter ends in some discomfort, but it's worth it. "Did he know how you felt?"

"I cannot imagine he was unaware. I had sun eyes for most of the time I spent looking at him."

"Moon eyes."

"Okay, moon eyes. You understood me."

Tony snorts again. "I bet you scared him, the poor thing. Staring at him creepily, all stalker-like, from across the classroom."

"Hush, Tony." She's grinning, though. "Okay, it is your turn. Tell me your secret."

"Mine's not quite as fun as yours, but it's still something I've never told anyone… I caused one of my dad's divorces, on purpose."

Ziva's eyes widen. "Why? And how?"

"You've seen _The Sound of Music_ , right?"

"The movie with the singing nanny?"

" _One_ of the singing nanny movies, yeah. Well, I pretty much acted like one of the Von Trapp kids from the beginning of the story, when they're trying to make Maria leave."

"I do not remember the movie _that_ clearly, Tony."

"Well, I'll just tell you what _I_ did, then. That particular stepmother—" He has to pause for a second before he remembers her name. "That one was Denise, I think. Anyway, she was just… a cow. She was horrible to me when my dad wasn't around to see it, and then she'd be fake-sweet whenever he _was_ there. I waited until she and my dad had a fight, and then I started doing things to piss her off. I put all of her makeup in the toilet and replaced it with a handful of frogs I caught in the backyard—god, she screamed so loudly when she opened that drawer! I put mud in her car, all over the seats… you know, that sort of thing. Childish stuff. But she thought my dad did it and their fighting got worse and worse until they divorced."

It's partially a funny story and partially an unhappy one, but Ziva chuckles a little, anyway. "I think she probably deserved it."

"Oh, she _did_."

"Good for you for standing up for yourself."

" _Someone_ had to do it, and my dad sure wasn't going to."

Ziva gives him a comforting pat on the chest. "You were a child who deserved better."

"Yeah, well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" he asks, looking down at her with a look that says he understands all the things she doesn't like to talk about.

She shrugs, not wanting to get into it, and abruptly changes the subject. "Let us pick one more Christmas movie to watch," she suggests, and though Tony can see what she's doing, he agrees.

* * *

Tony doesn't end up leaving 'til late afternoon, and when he does, he's almost reluctant to do it. It's funny, really—he should be eager to get home. He likes his space, after all, and he hasn't had a clean set of clothing to change into for two full days. He has enjoyed this strangely intimate time with Ziva, though, and he isn't very eager for it to end.

Ziva seems to be of the same mind, because she follows him to the door and they linger there to chat even after his shoes are laced up and his jacket is on.

Finally, there's no logical reason either can think of to put off parting, so they say their goodbyes. "Glad you're feeling better, Ziva," Tony says warmly.

"And I am glad you are, too. Merry Christmas, Tony."

"Merry Christmas, Ziva." He smiles at her and decides to give her that hug as a present, after all. He leans down and wraps her up tightly, his smile widening when she returns it without hesitation.

As they pull apart, their eyes meet, and it's the most natural thing in the world to close the distance again, this time with a kiss. It's almost unbearably tender, soft, innocent, sweet… a thank you and an I'm-glad-I-have-you all at once.

They share a loaded look when the kiss ends, and then Tony leaves. They'll never mention it again, and when their work break finishes, they'll resume their usual friendship at the office with no strings attached.

That does not, however, mean that either of them will stop thinking about it for a long, long time.


End file.
